


Small Mercies

by OxfordOctopus



Series: OxfordOctopus' Snips'n'Snaps [20]
Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Abduction, Aftermath of Violence, Alt-Power Taylor Hebert, Cluster Taylor Hebert, Cluster Trigger, Emotional Hurt, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23040457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OxfordOctopus/pseuds/OxfordOctopus
Summary: On a long, winding road in nowhere Maine, Taylor Hebert survives.(please read the content warnings in the beginning notes)
Series: OxfordOctopus' Snips'n'Snaps [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1435474
Comments: 1
Kudos: 42





	Small Mercies

**Author's Note:**

> This snip includes a content warning for mentions, references, and the aftermath of sexual assault. It doesn't detail any of it, but the crux of it is centered around it, and there is heavy reference to it. The main character is still suffering from wounds relating to their capture and abuse, and if you're not comfortable with that, or if you've dealt with situations similar to it and may be triggered by any of this, please be cautious when reading this or don't read it at all. I feel it's necessary to have this huge block of text because, while for Atlas making the text huge as a warning is one thing, Atlas never actually addresses the issue any more than making passing mentions about 'hands that leave behind nightmares'. Other snips that have dealt with heavy topics have had similar aspects, and it's not my intention - nor will it ever be - to leave people unprepared for a topic I'm writing about, only to be blindsided by it and be set off because of it. If you've experienced that due to any one of my snips or other work before this, please contact me - either through a comment or through DMs - and tell me ASAP so I can make the warning larger (and potentially longer) to ensure others aren't hurt by it as well.
> 
> This also includes some minor spoilers for Ward on the topic of cluster triggers.
> 
> Please stay safe.

Shouldering her way into the diner, Taylor breathed out a sigh of relief as warmth washed over her. Her fingers buzzed, prickling with pins and needles, chapped and red, while the rest of her body, her achingly-cold chest, her thighs, they all lit up with a slightly unexpected buzz. The heat was welcoming, but it took her a few laborious seconds to suck down the noise of pain she wanted to make as parts of her body previously too frozen to function kicked back into gear, nerves hissing and spitting.  
  
Glancing back out through the glass door, Taylor shuddered. Miles of highway in rural Maine stretched on endlessly, flanked by forests and intermittent clearings. She’d been walking down it for the last hour and a half, at least, but she had no real way to gauge time. It was only because she wasn’t dying of hypothermia after walking a few miles without a coat or winter clothing in mid-January that she was pretty sure it was less than two hours, but it had definitely been longer than one. Then again, a lot of the walk was a haze, the crushing roll of relief-into-panic-into-relief had only really calmed down when the diner had come into view.  
  
Glancing back into the diner, Taylor caught the eye of one of the two girls behind the front counter. The interior was old school, with checkered, scuffed up floors, red faux-leather seats, and tall, uncomfortable-looking stools elsewhere. The server somewhat clashed with that aesthetic, wearing what looked like goth-style makeup, spiked hair, a black choker, black nail polish, and what appeared to be half-a-dozen metal crosses in a variety of styles over her apron. The other server was hunched over, dirty brown hair and a smattering of freckles illuminated by the phone in her hands.  
  
Taylor palmed her pants, feeling for the outline of her wallet as it bit into still-fresh bruises across her thighs. Retrieving the raggedy thing from her pocket, she split it open, staring down at a mess of five dollar bills and a handful of assorted coins. Enough to get something to eat, then—enough to have an excuse to stay here. Swallowing down the bile at the thought of food right now, Taylor tucked her wallet into her sleeve and approached, the goth server glancing up, eyes hooded and lazy, wordlessly holding out a menu when Taylor got close enough to reach. Taking the nicotine-stained bit of linoleum with great care, Taylor watched as the server made an aborted head motion towards what looked like the empty seats, repeating the same motion when she made no attempt to leave.  
  
“Could I use your phone?” her voice was raspy, a spark of pain almost yanking a cough out of her. Whether it was due to the long period of disuse or the screaming, she wasn’t sure.  
  
The goth server - _Hi, I’m Martha!_ , her tag read - paused, glancing back towards the other server. As though informed telepathically, the brown haired girl glanced up, flicked her eyes towards Taylor, before grumbling beneath her breath. After rising, the other server slipped her cellphone into her pocket and marched her way towards what looked to be a wireless receiver. The girl yanked the phone out of it, brought it to her ear, as though checking for something, before pulling it away and walking back towards Taylor, handing the phone off to her.  
  
Gingerly taking the phone and placing the menu back down onto the countertop, Taylor blearily put her brain to work remembering the emergency hotline number and Brockton area code. Once that was all dialed in, she didn’t hesitate to dig her thumb into the call button, the faint ringing of an open connection crackling into her ear seconds later. She just about collapsed in relief, her free hand jumping out to brace against the countertop. She tried to avoid looking at the bruises peeking out from her wrist, mottled with purples and yellows, visible now that she wasn’t hunching her arms to keep the sleeves as far down as humanly possible.  
  
There was a _click_.  
  
“PRT emergency hotline, how may we help you?” The voice on the other end was female, high-pitched but not unpleasant to listen to. More relief came, more _hope_ , something so rare, so infrequent, that she had to stop herself from choking up.  
  
If there were any secret PRT codes to inform people over the phone that you were a hero without telling anyone nearby, she hadn’t been taught them. They’d been finalizing her recruitment into the Wards before—before _this_ , before the last ten days. “This is Snowblind,” she eventually said, choking down the agony that came with with each rattle of her breath, each word she managed to eke out from between too-chapped lips. Subconsciously, she shrunk back, consciously stopping herself from touching the hidden ring of bruises around the base of her neck. “I—I’m at Penny’s Roadside Diner, somewhere in Maine, I escaped cap—ca,”— _get the words out, Taylor_ —“capture. Could you please send someone to get me?"  
  
The woman on the other end paused, the phone picking up the sound of rapid clicks and clacks along a keyboard.  
  
“Could you tell me the date you were born and the person who interviewed you?”  
  
Taylor swallowed thickly. “June 11th, 1995, and—and, Battery and Miss Militia interviewed me.” There hadn’t been a single person, and god, _god_ , she hoped she was right.  
  
Another pause. “Are you in any immediate danger, Snowblind?”  
  
A shudder of relief ran through her. “No.”  
  
“Good. Okay, I’m going to contact the local law enforcement and the Maine Protectorate branch to send someone over while I transfer you to someone who can better handle your needs. Is that okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” Taylor croaked, fingers tensing against the surface of the counter. “Could you tell them to bring a mask? I—I don’t have mine, anymore.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
The phone _clicked_ after another moment of silence, before a soft, soothing bit of music crackled on. Taylor couldn’t put a name to it, but it wasn’t so generic as elevator music, even if it was relatively boring to listen to. Glancing up, Taylor couldn’t hide the grimace as she caught sight of the servers gawping at her. They knew her face, her cape name, and her date of birth, but at least they didn’t know her full name. Placing far-too shaky hand to the phone’s microphone, Taylor locked eyes with Martha. “Could I use a booth?”  
  
The server nodded rapidly, looking awed for reasons Taylor didn’t understand and wasn’t about to unpack. Stumbling on legs now far less willing to support her, she took in greedy, thick-chested gulps as she wandered over to one of the more isolated booths near the back. The sight of plush seats made part of her focus back to the deep ache along her legs, in her feet. Her legs bowed a bit, and before she could really think about what she was doing, she less slid, more toppled, into the embrace of faux leather and red dye.  
  
The bruises along her hips jarred against cramped muscles, a burst of agony that reminded her of just what walking had helped her ignore. She tried to choke back a sob only for it to come out from between clenched teeth, her free arm rearing back, covering over her mouth, her nose. It was harder to breathe, but the noise she made, the deep heaving and swallowed gags as nausea wormed its way back into the pit of her throat, it all came out muffled, quiet even in a near vacant, silent diner.  
  
It took another few seconds before she could get her breathing back to normal, until the echoes of the last twenty four hours slipped mercifully back into the part of her brain that was busy repressing them. The agony withered away, reduced to little more than a buzz that was, if deeply uncomfortable and upsetting, not impossible to ignore. The song still played in her ear, uninterrupted by her break down, and she was quietly thankful that nobody on the other end heard it, even if everyone in the diner probably had.  
  
Smoothing her breathing out, Taylor glanced back out onto the road, ever-empty and still.  
  
“Hello? Snowblind?” The voice on the other end was almost frantic, suddenly booming in her ear. Taylor withheld the flinch, the familiar-but-not voice giving her pause. “This is Deputy Director Renick, I’m sorry about the delay—Director Piggot wasn’t available and I was taking lunch.”  
  
Taylor paused. Was it the afternoon? She—she hadn’t checked what time it had been when she left, but, but, Ian made her wake up at 6:30 every morning, and, and she’d only managed to get away, to hurt him, after she made breakfast. After those ten days of it being her turn to be the focus of the other members. How much time had she lost? She glanced around frantically, managing to find a clock above the entrance that read 1:32PM.  
  
“Snowblind?” Renick’s voice had gone a little soft, not gentle, but soft.  
  
Taylor thumbed some of the blood that still stained the interior of her palm, hesitating as it peeled away. “Sorry,” she got out after another moment, ignoring how thick her voice sounded. “Sorry, I just wasn’t aware of the time.”  
  
“It’s okay. Can you explain what happened?”  
  
She couldn’t, not today. But, she could try to get a bit of it out, a little. “Hetzer,” was the word that slipped out, and it came out surprisingly blank. No emotion, not audible, even if she felt her stomach churn at the feeling of the word rolling off her tongue.  
  
“ _Oh_.”  
  
The PRT knew of Ian’s obsession with her. They’d known from the start, really, it was part of their informational package to people who triggered at the same time as and in close proximity to other people, as members of what they called ‘cluster triggers’. It didn’t help that Ian had already been obsessed with her, she’d been his... scapegoat? Target for his martyrship? Arguably the reason why he tried to shoot up a school and made himself and three other people have the worst days of their lives?  
  
She shook her head. “He had me from day one,” she continued blankly, feeling almost detached, separate from the situation. She didn’t even feel all that bad, oddly, just... empty. Separated. “I think he’s dead. He should be.”  
  
There was some muffled cursing on the other end of the phone, the sound of creaking doors and boots hitting snow. “It’s okay, Snowblind,” Renick eventually said, the click and honk of a car being unlocked from a distance just audible over his shuffling. “I’m going to try and meet the police coming to pick you up mid-way, along with the others. I’m”—there was a shift as the quality of the phone changed, got more echoey, bouncing around in a larger space—“getting into my car and using the car’s calling feature to be with you. I think the woman you spoke to has already contacted your father, but he’s been told to remain in a safe location for now.”  
  
A sudden need to take apart the salt shaker on the table, coupled with ideas about tempering the metal to act as a lens, came over her; abrupt and harsh, almost a compulsion. She crushed it with an immediate fury, breathing deeply and in unsteady gasps at the thought. She couldn’t Tinker, wouldn’t, not today, maybe not even tomorrow or the day after. The urges had been stronger since she left, itching in her brain, urging her fingers to move, to think up ideas, but that was _his_ power. She’d nearly dismantled his shower-head that she had used to get rid of most of the blood off her person before running, and without walking to appease her mind, she was now just stuck here, thinking, steadily feeling the world become more real while she waited for someone, _anyone_ , to come and get her, to help her.  
  
“Snowblind? Please keep talking, I need you to remain vocal with me to make sure you’re okay.”  
  
“Sorry,” she didn’t feel like she had a filter anymore, she was a wreck. He’d broken parts of her, ripped them up and now she was left with this, with a _mockery_ of who she was, of who she had hoped to eventually stop being. “I keep getting distracted by the urge to take things apart.”  
  
Renick hummed, his voice throaty, deep. Not like Ian’s, a boy with a voice that was sharp, loud, but almost androgynous. It fit Ian’s appearance, all thin limbs and body, a face that settled into a sneer that was almost a leer. Even before he joined the Empire, back when he’d just been another guy at school, he’d always been like that. Renick was different, people were different.  
  
Ian was dead.  
  
So why didn’t it feel like that?  
  
“We can make sure you have more lab space”— _I don’t want you to_ —“when you next feel comfortable enough to use it, or finish joining the Wards.”  
  
“Oh.” The sound was more of an exhalation, less of a word. He understood, somehow, even with what little she told him. Maybe they already found his body? It didn’t make a lot of sense that they did, but, well. Maybe.  
  
Renick audibly shifted in his seat. “You don’t need to join, Snowblind,” he said, soothing, warm, _kind, caring._ “You can take time to heal, we won’t force the issue, and we understand, at least a little. Powder was panicking trying to find you, actually.”  
  
“It was my turn, you know?” Taylor’s words came fast, babbled. Her mind retraced the last thought, the reason why she could get away at all. “Sure, Hetzer was bad normally, but... It was my turn to be the center of attention. We all get those, ten days, everyone's feelings towards you get stronger, more intense.” It would’ve been Ian’s turn this time, but there was nothing there, no compulsions, no urges, no intrusive thoughts about hurting him, about making herself safe.  
  
She wished she had listened to them before.  
  
“It’s not your fault,” Renick said, voice slow, calm, and anchoring. Taylor sucked in a breath and nodded, even when she knew he wouldn’t see it. “It’s not your fault, it’s Hetzer’s. You know that, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” she breathed, slumping a bit. Her elbow steadied her, hand coming up to rest just beneath her chin. “Yeah, okay. Thank you.”  
  
There was another lapse of silence, not unpleasant but not altogether comfortable either. Taylor had to resist the urge to fidget, knowing exactly what that would do to recently-settled aches and bruises.  
  
“I’ll be seeing you soon,” Renick said, probably to fill the silence. “I’m not sure how long it’ll take for the local emergency services to arrive, but I’d say really soon. We sent out Velocity ahead, as well, and he should be there a little after they are.”  
  
That was a bit of a surprise. Both sending a hero out and that he’d only be a ‘little while’ later than the local police department. It wasn’t like Brockton was close, and she remembered parts of the drive over to—  
  
No, no. She wasn’t about to think of the place. Thinking about Ian was hard enough, the cabin was worse.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Renick grunted. “You don’t have to thank me. We’re just doing our jobs.”  
  
A bit of red caught her eye, drawing her stare away from the table and back to the window. The long stretch of highway only had a very slight curve, so just at the far end of it, barely visible, she could see the indistinct shapes of approaching vehicles; police cars and an ambulance, if she wasn’t mistaken.  
  
Taylor breathed in wetly, sniffling as she rubbed the lids of her eyes raw, trying to banish the tears.  
  
“I—can’t - won’t - ask if you’re okay, not like that, but, Snowblind?” Renick sounded weary, but concerned.  
  
“Sorry, just saw them coming is all,” Taylor slurred, her throat bobbing as the thick weight threatened to push to the surface, to make herself break down. She wouldn’t - _couldn’t_ \- let it, not right now. Later, she told herself, later she’d be alone and she’d have no reason to play pretend, to be more than she’d been reduced to.  
  
“That’s good,” Renick’s voice was thick with relief, though concern still tinged a lot of it. “Wait for them to arrive, okay? I’m going to end the call and focus on driving for the time being. I think we’ve set the rendezvous point forty minutes out from me.”  
  
It was odd, but the words just slipped out of her. “Be safe, please.”  
  
A note of silence.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
The line went dead.  
  
Why would she ask that of him? Probably because he’d been nice, and it’d been a while since someone had been nice, someone who she knew anyway. Gently placing the phone face-down on the table, Taylor glanced back towards the road. She could hear the sirens now, a faint noise that pressed against the glass, muffled. They were closer, far closer, she could see the two police cars and one ambulance moving almost side-by-side, with just one of them lagging behind.  
  
“Um.” A voice - Taylor glanced over, it wasn’t Martha, but the brown-haired girl - spoke up, soft and wobbly. “Are you done with the phone?”  
  
Taylor nodded, to which the server rather quickly swept the phone off and scuttled back off towards her peers, an eruption of whispering just barely audible to her ears. She had to stop herself from grimacing again.  
  
Finally, a minute or so later, the cars pulled into the parking lot of the diner. The first one out was a severe looking woman, choppy brown hair cut so short it was barely more than a buzz cut. She wore a larger badge than the rest, and her uniform looked better taken care of than her slightly dumpy, rounder colleague, who jostled out of the car with a plodding rhythm. The woman glanced at her, locking eyes, before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a plastic, foldable domino mask and waving it a little.  
  
Taylor nodded at her, and the cop sent her a grateful looking smile - a bit of a shock, on a face that looked like it could shame by proxy - before turning back and quickly jogging over to the ambulance and the emergency responders who were getting out. Her partner gave her what Taylor thought was an attempt at a reassuring smile before following after.  
  
After a few moments of nothing at all happening, two more women wearing blue scrubs stepped into view, accompanied by the severe-looking cop. They were making a straight line for the entrance, and quickly slid out of Taylor’s range of sight. She bit down on the uncharitable impulse to run away, to hide and pretend nothing was wrong, and clenched her hands until they started to hurt instead. Her fingers hadn’t really gotten any less red, they were still oddly chapped and lit up in pain whenever she pressed down on the skin too much. Frostbite, she figured; that wasn’t unexpected, but at least it didn’t look as though they were at risk of rotting off.  
  
The door to the diner opened behind her with a soft, tinkling chime. Someone made an aborted attempt to greet them, quite a contrast to her own arrival, but didn’t get much into it before Taylor could hear the sound of someone approaching. To their credit, they didn’t rush to her side or get in her face, and instead both of the women in scrubs and the cop approached in such a way that they were never close to her without being in her line of sight. She wasn’t sure if they knew they were doing it, but she appreciated it nonetheless.  
  
When they did finally approach, the cop - her badge read ‘Lieutenant Brooke’ - wordlessly offered her the domino mask, which she took and slipped onto her face with shaky hands. Once that was done, the emergency responders carefully approached, the woman in the front - Taylor made sure to read her nametag first before applying a mental name, Vivian Lawrence - who carefully knelt down so that they were eye-level.  
  
“We’re going to be moving you to the back of the ambulance, if that’s okay?” Vivian said, her partner staying just a few feet behind. Taylor slowly managed to nod, which brought a gentle, but thankful smile to the ER’s face. “Good, do you need any help getting up? We’ve been informed on what we might be dealing with.”  
  
Taylor smothered the shame in her throat, flexing her fingers carefully. She went over the words her mother told her when she was younger, when problems like _this,_ the threat of it happening to her, became an issue, became something that she might face one day. That she did face. Finally overcoming the urge to be recalcitrant and stubborn, Taylor mutely nodded.  
  
The other ER - Patricia Oswell - approached as well while Vivian maneuvered herself. Careful, gentle hands gradually helped her to her feet, her hips spasming and her knees buckling twice as she went from sitting to hunching and finally standing. All-in-all, it took them nearly a minute and one of them asking if she needed to bring the stretcher in to get her back on her feet.  
  
The walk to the ambulance - done while mostly leaning on Vivian - was no easier. It hurt, every single part of her body from the waist down screamed with each aborted step and each stumble. Her skin, the parts that were chapped and raw and accompanied by murmurs about frostbite and creams, withered and bristled when the cold outside washed over them, but even then, even with all of that, she still managed to be gently pulled into the back of the ambulance and settled down onto the stretcher.  
  
Lieutenant Brooke remained behind, muttering into her radio, even when Taylor watched the doors to the ambulance swing shut.  
  
The vehicle rumbled as the driver started it up, a soft creak of motion as overhead lights flickered on.  
  
Vivian, still rummaging through the supplies that were stacked just to the right, paused. “I know you don’t want to talk about it,” she said, slowly, gently. “But I need you to tell me where you’re wounded. Not how—that can come later, but we need to start helping you. Even if you can only manage to tell us about the things that hurt the worst, that impede you the most, I need you to.”  
  
She didn’t want to; she wanted to shut her eyes and go to sleep. She wanted the last ten days, the blood, the beatings and the leather that had bit into her wrists, all of it to be one long, fading, forgettable dream.  
  
She wanted to forget being forced to say grace for a religion she didn’t believe in, having to listen to Ian tell her about the ‘family’ they’ll make, about what he would have twisted her into if he'd had enough time.  
  
She wanted to forget the knife, and his body.  
  
She wanted to forget everything.  
  
Taylor opened her mouth, letting out a harsh, wet breath, and began to talk.


End file.
